I consider the passage of time upon my body and on those around me; watching my grandfather steadily shift from a man who could do back handsprings on a summer day well into his late-50's to a man, at 90, who is determined to navigate the halls of his home without the assistance of walker. I study the faces of women around me for the marks of their lives etched finely, creased steadily deeper. I wonder at the unmoving lineless face of a woman in her 70's, elegant and graceful like a tableau in Madame Tussauds. Such preservation is not for me, but I sometimes struggle with the superficiality of aging. I love deeply and dearly the lines of women I have known for many years, watching their faces gain wisdom and beauty as they shift, become more deeply themselves, youth a distant dream. The strong confidence exuded by a proud head of white hair. But there is still a coming to terms with the limits of self-care and self-preservation, an acceptance of the beauty of time trundling slowly by. I recently had a conversation with a Canadian Naturalist about the social pressures of aging. He turned sixty-four this year and received a notice from the government letting him know his pension payments would begin shortly. This has turned his sense of purpose on its head as he still feels the drive to persist, to work, yet is being told that he is no longer essential, vital, no longer needed. This plus the steady breakdown of the body and a longing to regain some of those years of directionless we all have in early adulthood, time we used imperfectly perhaps, add up to a struggle against time. Oh that we used our time always with direction and purpose, ambling toward a distant light. Sometimes I I wish I could fast forward the middle years of forty to 60, not because I don't want those years, but so I could be settled more deeply into myself. If I could preserve my functionality, guarantee the plasticity of my brain, I would like to live a la Tuck Ever Lasting, on the verge of sixty to be fully lined, to live in a rural cottage surrounded by flaking paint and a creeky old pup, a big studio, bountiful gardens, family and friends coming and going as they will. That might be the sweet spot, the shroud of youth dropped away, the wisdom of years in my bones, skill at my finger tips. Would you come join me in the studio for an afternoon? That would be fun, a chat, shared food and some quiet time to make things together.